After the Fall
by allthingsdecent
Summary: A fic I wrote shortly after the Season 7 finale to help me grieve. Probably my favorite fic I've ever written.
1. Chapter 1

"_Dr. Cuddy, is the man who crashed his car into your house in the courtroom?"_

"Yes, he is."

_"Can you point to him?"_

_"I can."_

"Your honor, let the record show that the witness is pointing to the defendant, Dr. Gregory House."

_"Dr. Cuddy, what was Dr. House's state of mind when he crashed into your home?"_

"Objection!" House's lawyer popped up. "The witness is not a mind reader. She doesn't know what my client's state of mind was."

"My witness knows Dr. House, perhaps better than anybody. All I'm asking is for her to give an honest assessment of his mood."

"I'll allow it," the judge said. "But tread carefully."

"Dr. Cuddy?"

"He was unnervingly calm," Cuddy said. "If anything, he seemed happy—proud of himself."

_"The defendant is claiming temporary insanity. Did he seem insane to you?"_

"Objection! The witness is not a psychiatrist."

_"Sustained," the judge said quickly. "Brennan, I told you to tread carefully."_

_"Sorry. Let me rephrase the question. Did his behavior give any indication of _why_ he crashed into your home?"_

_"Objection!" _

_But before the judge could rule, Cuddy looked House squarely in the eyes:_

_"I believe Dr. House crashed into my home because he was trying to kill me," she said. _

_#######  
><em>

House was sentenced to 7 years in prison for attempted vehicular manslaughter, reckless endangerment, and forging fake prescriptions. On good behavior, he was told he could be out in 3 years. Cuddy wasn't too worried about that. Good behavior wasn't one of House's strongpoints.

But Wilson, who had remained friends with House despite it all—his anger was somewhat tempered when House testified that Wilson knew nothing of the forged vicodin prescriptions—told Cuddy that House was the model prisoner. He kept to himself. He followed the rules. He even volunteered at the hospital clinic.

"He _volunteers _at the clinic?"

Cuddy was not so blinded by her anger at House that she didn't find this at least a little bit funny. "If I'd known that all it would take to get him to do clinic hours was a little vehicular manslaughter, I would've had him try to kill me sooner."

Wilson wasn't amused by her joke.

"You know he didn't try to kill you, Cuddy."

"Oh, I know that, do I? How? Because he told you so?"

"No, because he loves you."

"Yeah, like OJ loved Nicole," she muttered.

#######

His prison uniform was a drab gray, not orange, as she'd envisioned. But he was, satisfyingly, led out in cuffs. He also seemed completely stunned to see her. His face went ashen.

He looked the same, more or less. A little skinnier. A little more haggard. His limp a little more severe. But besides that, House.

He sat down tentatively across the table from her.

"When they told me I had a visitor I thought it was Wilson," he admitted.

"I needed to see you for myself. My therapist told me not to come, but I knew it would be cathartic."

"You're in therapy?"

"Yeah. For anxiety, depression. You know, the normal stuff that happens to a girl when her crazed ex lover tries to kill her."

"I didn't try to kill you, Cuddy—not intentionally, at least. You know that."

"Whatever," Cuddy said. "That's not why I'm here."

"Why _are_ you here?"

"Wilson tells me you'll be out in a month. So I just want to lay some ground rules. You need to stay away from me and Rachel."

"Of course," House said.

"No, I mean it. I want you leave town."

"I can't. Not for a year at least. I'll be on parole."

_Shit._ She hadn't thought of that.

"Okay, then just stay away. Don't come near my hospital, don't come near my house, don't go near my gym, my coffee shop, my dry cleaner, my grocery store. I don't want to have to put out a restraining order, but I will."

"I understand," he said sadly. "Cuddy. . .words can't express how sorry I am. You know that right?"

"I don't want to hear it, House."

"I know you don't," he said. "I still want to apologize. I'll apologize to you every day for the rest of my life, if you'll let me. . ."

He leaned forward a bit in his chair, as if he was about to touch her hand. Cuddy, reflexively, flinched.

House took note of her fear of him, sighed, backed away.

"Did you get my letters?" he asked finally.

"I got them all. And I promptly threw them out."

"Oh." He looked at his feet. "And Rachel? What have you told her?"

"I told her you were dead."

This news seemed to truly rattle him.

"You told her I was _dead?_"

"What was I supposed to tell her? That the man she loved like a father destroyed her house and tried to kill her mommy?"

House put his face in his hands and stayed that way for an uncomfortably long time. His shoulders lightly shook. He was clearly crying, but he was trying to cover it up. Finally, he inhaled. Opened his eyes, blinked at her.

"I guess I deserve that," he said.

"You deserve that and much worse," she said coldly.

She stood up, motioned to the guard.

"Remember, stay away" she said pointedly. And left.

######

"How'd it go?" Wilson asked. "Did it give you the closure you were hoping for?"

"I made him cry," Cuddy said with a shrug. "So that was nice."

Wilson shook his head. "That's not like you, Cuddy."

"What is like me, Wilson? You tell me. I don't know anymore."

"You're a good person," he said gently.

"And bad things happen to good people, right?"

"Yes, sometimes they do."

"Well, fuck House. He deserves to cry and he deserves a whole lot worse. Frankly, I'm amazed he could cry at all. He seemed highly medicated. What do they have him on? Lithium? Something stronger?"

"No, he's not on anything," Wilson said. "No anti-depressants. No vicodin. Not even aspirin. He wants to suffer, Cuddy."

"And that's supposed to make me feel sorry for him?"

"He's not doing it to impress you. It's how he feels, Cuddy. He hates himself."

"He always hated himself."

"Suffice it to say, it used to be more of a love/hate relationship."

"Well good. I hope he hates himself. And I hope he's in pain. I'm sorry if that's not something a good person should say, but it's just how I feel."

######

A few weeks after House got out of prison, she got a call from Doug Westing, an old colleague of hers, who ran a cancer research lab in Newark.

"I'm calling because Greg House applied for a job at the lab," Westing said. "He can't practice medicine anymore, as you know. But he'd be a great fit in the lab. He could really do some good here."

"Why are you telling me this?" Cuddy said.

"Because we all know what he did to you. Just say the word and we won't hire him."

Cuddy hesitated.

"That's ridiculous Doug. Of course you should hire him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

That night, she had the usual dream. House crashed into Rachel's bedroom. Rachel flew out of her crib—in the dream, it was always a crib, although in real life, Rachel had moved to a "big girl bed" last year—and was careening toward the car's windshield. But before she could crash through, Cuddy always woke up, out of breath, sometimes screaming.

It was 11:30 at night, but she called Doug Westing at home.

"I changed my mind, if it's not too late," she said. "Don't hire Gregory House."

"It's no too late," Westing said. "And I totally understand."

######

He was persona non grata in the medical community and couldn't get a job anywhere. Cuddy took some satisfaction in that. At least _she_ had friends.

Because of his leg, he couldn't do the kind of manual labor jobs that a lot of ex-cons got—construction, maintenance, landscaping. And because his felony involved a vehicle, he couldn't even get a job driving a taxi or a truck.

He finally got work at a seedy little diner on the bad side of town, flipping burgers.

Dr. Gregory House, genius diagnostician, was now a short order cook.

#######

It started with a stomach ache. Then there was a fever. Then a rash. At first, Cuddy thought it was the flu, then she feared it was meningitis. But Rachel kept getting worse.

After a week, she had to hospitalize her.

They began doing tests for scary things like lupus, Crohn's, juvenile diabetes. Then even scarier things like leukemia and lymphoma. All negative.

Cuddy had never been so terrified in her life. To see her little girl—her happy-go-lucky little girl—lying in a hospital bed, pale and weak, it was almost more than she could bear.

She felt like she was being tested, but she didn't know why.

It was Foreman who came into her office and said what everyone was thinking, "You need to call House."

"I can't, Eric…I can't."

"Well, do you mind if I do? We're running out of answers and we're running out of time."

The words "running out time" were enough to jar her from her stubbornness.

"I'll ask him myself," she said.

She arrived at the Starbright Diner that night at 11 pm.

She sat at the counter.

"What'll it be, hon?"

"I'll take a cup of coffee and I need to talk to Dr.—to House."

"You mean Greg?" the waitress said. "The cook?"

"Yes," Cuddy said.

"He's kind of busy back there. . but I'll see if I can grab him. Whatdya say your name was again?"

Before she could answer, House emerged from the swinging doors of the kitchen, wiping his hands with a rag.

"Her name is Cuddy," he said. He was wearing a gray flannel newsboy cap, a white t-shirt, and a white apron, splattered with grease. "Dr. Lisa Cuddy."

"Can we talk?" she asked.

"What are you doing here, Cuddy? I thought we were staying away from each other, right? Wasn't that the plan?"

"I need your help. . .with a diagnosis."

Cuddy had Rachel's file in her hand, which she shoved at him roughly.

"You know I don't do that anymore," he said, handing it back.

"I know. . .it's Rachel."

"_Rachel?_"

He took the file back anxiously, opened it, scanned it.

"I assume they've tested for toxins in your home," he said evenly.

"She's gotten worse since she got to the hospital," Cuddy said.

"And hereditary factors? Have you looked at the birthmother's patient file?"

"Of course."

The waitress was looking at House peculiarly: "Wait? You're a doctor."

"Used to be," House said. "Another life."

At a table, a guy complaining to his waitress overheard: "Well, in this life, you're a cook. Where's my omelet?"

House glanced nervously at him.

"Cuddy, my shift ends at 1 am. Leave the file with me and I'll read it more closely when I get off, okay?"

She nodded. Blinked away a tear.

"Thanks House."

He must've been up all night pouring over the file, because he called her at 5:23 a.m.

"Was Rachel's birthmother ever tested for Hastings Disease?"

"Hastings? No, I don't think so."

"Test Rachel," House said. "And call me back."

She rushed to the hospital. They tested Rachel and, of course, he was right. A rare strain of the syndrome was passed from the mother to the fetus and had laid dormant in her little girl for 5 years.

It was serious, but treatable with a course of steroids, and Rachel was going to be okay.

A wave of gratitude and relief washed over her.

She called him back several hours later, once the diagnosis was confirmed. He answered his cell after 5 rings. In the background, she could hear voices, laughter, the clattering of pots and pans— the din of a busy restaurant.

"You were right. It was Hastings," she said.

He sighed.

"Thank God," he said. She had never heard him reference God in anything other than a mocking voice.

"House, I . . .I don't know how to thank you."

"Forget about it."

He hung up.

Six nights later, she went to the diner to thank him in person. But it was his night off. The waitress from the other night gave her House's address.

It was a neighborhood Cuddy didn't set foot in very often—a rougher part of town.

She climbed the stairs to the fifth floor. The hall smelled of cooking food—something involving curry and rice—and a baby was screaming. She knew immediately which was his apartment, because she could hear jazz music blaring through the speakers.

She stood in front of his door for what felt like an eternity. Finally, she mustered up the nerve to knock. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest.

He was wearing jeans and a familiar blue Oxford shirt, which now hung on him a little too loosely. He still looked skinny, bordering on gaunt. He badly needed a haircut.

"How did you find me?" he said.

"That waitress, from the Starbright."

"So. . .have you come to see how the other half lives?"

Over his shoulder, she could see into the studio apartment. Very spartan. A couch bed, a small ratty throw rug, a TV. No piano. Cuddy vaguely wondered if it was in storage or if he'd actually been forced to hock it.

"I came to thank you again," she said. "Rachel is feeling much better. She's home from the hospital."

"Good," he said. "I'd send her a get well gift, but, you know, she thinks I'm dead."

Cuddy ignored this.

"There's something else I want to tell you. May I come in?"

"Not afraid of me anymore?" he asked pointedly.

She thought back to that moment at the prison— when he had gone to touch her and she had flinched.

"No, I'm not afraid of you, House," she said.

"Okay."

He gestured toward the room, let her in.

"I'm just doing dishes," he said, patting a stool in the tiny kitchen. "Have a seat."

"I can do those for you," she said. "You're on your feet all day."

"I'm fine, Cuddy," he said. He was lying. Once again, she had noticed that his limp was worse than ever. He could barely put pressure on the leg.

He offered her a glass of murky water from the tap, which she took.

"I have something to confess, House," she said, watching him clean.

"What's that?"

"I told Doug Westing not to hire you. I'm the reason you didn't get that job at the lab."

"I kind of figured that," he said.

"You did?"

"You have a lot of friends, Cuddy. They don't take kindly to hiring the guy who tried to kill you."

"Doug asked me directly and I told him not to hire you."

House shrugged.

"So what? I didn't deserve that job," he said.

He was working on a particularly stubborn bit of grease on a cast iron pot. His arm muscle coiled as he scrubbed.

She watched him for a bit.

"Are you taking anything for your leg?" she asked finally. She reluctantly sipped at her glass of water.

"No," he said. "I like the pain. It's pure . . .it's cleansing."

"It's stupid," she said. "As a doctor, you know better."

"Ex doctor," he corrected.

Cuddy stared at him, incredulous. Finally she said:

"House, what on earth's wrong with you? It's like you're barely recognizable as the man I used to know."

"Which man?" House asked. "Your 'crazed ex lover' as I think you put it? The homicidal maniac who tried to kill you?"

He didn't make eye contact—kept working on the stain like it was the most vexing medical problem he had ever tackled.

"Maybe it's time to stop punishing yourself, House. No one died that night."

"Actually, somebody did."

The meaning of what he said slowly sunk in for both of them.

She couldn't believe that she felt sorry for him. Couldn't believe that she wanted to take him in her arms and console him. Couldn't believe that she still gave a shit.

But she got up, stood next to him, took his hand.

"House, enough is enough. You've done your time. It's over. You saved a child's life—_my_ child. We're even. I forgive you."

He didn't take her hand back. But he didn't pull away, either.

"Thank you," he said. "But I don't forgive myself."

"I want you to start taking pain medication. And I'm going to call Doug Westing and see if there are any more openings in his lab. You're wasting your gifts. It was selfish of me to keep you from getting that job."

"There's no point, Cuddy," House said. He had finished washing the dishes and was now beginning to dry them and put them away.

"My parole is up in 6 weeks. I'm leaving town."

#######

"Did you know about this?" she said, almost accusingly, in Wilson's office the next day.

"Of course, I knew."

And you're just going to let him go?"

"He's a grown man, Cuddy. He can do what he likes."

"But he's. . .running away from his problems. That's never the right choice."

"He thinks it's the only choice."

"Because of me?"

"Well, yeah, Cuddy. Because of you. But also because of Rachel. The fact that Rachel thinks he's dead—I can't tell you how much that affected him. It destroyed him."

Cuddy bit her nail, weighed whether or not to Wilson tell the truth.

"Rachel doesn't really think he's dead," she said quietly. "I just told him that to make him feel bad. I told her that House did a bad thing and he had to go away for a long time as punishment. I didn't get specific. She still thinks the car that drove into our house belonged to a stranger."

"Wow," Wilson said. "If House knew that, he'd be . . .a lot happier."

"Maybe I'll tell him."

"You sure you want to do that? It's an opening, Cuddy."

"I don't know what I want, Wilson. I just know I can't stand seeing him like this."

"No, me neither."

Cuddy laughed bitterly. "It's 2014. Will you and I ever stop talking about Gregory House?"

Wilson shook his head, laughed with her. "I highly doubt it."

She put a letter in the mail for him.

_Dear House-_

_Rachel wrote this for her class project. I lied to you. I never told her that you were dead. She does, however, have no idea that you rammed your car into her dining room and almost killed her mother. So don't get too excited. _

Attached, was a piece of white paper, with a hand written essay, in crayon.

_Herose-_

_Some herose are firemen and some herose are policemen but some herose are doctors, like my mommy._  
><em><br>My hero is Doctor Greg Howse, becawse he fownd out I hade Hay Stings and then he saved me. He is also my freind, even thouh I do not see him ever. _

_By Rachel Cuddy._

Underneath the essay was a picture of a little girl, lying on a surgeon's table, smiling, and a smiling man with a stethoscope around his neck and a surgical hat with a red cross. The man was sitting on top of a unicorn.  
>Rachel had arrows pointing to the various subjects for identification. One said Rachel, the other said Howse, and the third said Sparkles.<p>

Cuddy added a post script:

_p.s. Since when did they let unicorns into the OR?_

_######  
><em>

"Cuddy, I want to come clean about something."

Wilson was standing in her office, looking even more sheepish than usual.

"I'm having a little gathering at my house tomorrow night to celebrate my 45th birthday. I debated inviting you because, well, House will be there."

"I see."

"But I'd love if you came. Even if you just stopped by. I know Brenda would love to see you, too."

Brenda was the architect Wilson had been dating for the past six months. It was getting pretty serious. Cuddy, on the other hand, hadn't been with a man since her last attempt to date, quite literally, went up in smoke.

"I'll see if I can get a babysitter and try to be there," she said.

She got to the party on the late side, 9:30 or so, and instantly wondered if House was still there.

She knew everyone at the party, so it was like a gauntlet just trying to get to the back of the room where the bar was set up. She saw Wilson, gave him a birthday kiss. Chatted with Brenda about an article they had both read on Jezebel. Got introduced to Chase's latest flavor the week—a leggy blonde who was almost as pretty as he was.

Finally, she made it to the bar, poured herself a glass of white wine and looked around. No sign of House.

She felt a combination of relief and disappointment.

She gulped the glass, poured a second, and then a third.

She went to the bathroom. On the way out, she noticed that the door to Wilson's bedroom was cracked open a bit. She peered in.

House was sitting, alone, on the bed, reading a medical journal by a dim light. He had a glass of scotch in his hand. In the warm light, she could see the lines and shadows of his face. He looked older, more world-weary, but still handsome, as ever. Seeing him alone, she felt an all-too familiar stir. It was her curse, she realized. She would always be attracted to him.

"This looks cozy," she said, walking into the room.

He looked up. Smiled shyly.

"Yeah, I don't do well with parties these days," he admitted.

"You never did."

"No, I guess not."

"What are you reading?" she asked.

"Oh, very sexy stuff," he said. "_Pneumatic Dilation versus Laparoscopic Heller's Myotomy for Idiopathic Achalasia_."

"Wow. Good times," she said.

Every rational impulse in her brain was telling her to get back to the party. But she couldn't bring herself to leave. She kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the bed next to him, folding her legs behind her.

"Mind if I hide out here with you?" she said.

"Ironic, since you're the one I'm hiding out from," he admitted.

"Oh," she said, disappointed. "I thought things were okay between us. Did you get Rachel's essay?"

"I loved it," he said. "Really."

"I didn't write it for her, you know. She did that all on her own."

"I kinda figured so much. I'm guessing you know how to spell my name. . .'"

She smiled, then sidled closer, her body now pressing up against his. She peered over his shoulder, reading.

"Seriously, House. That article's even too boring for me, and I run a hospital."

She popped off the bed.

"Oooh, let's see what books Wilson has!" she said playfully, moving to the bookshelf. She began pulling out titles, laughing: "_I'm Okay, You're Okay_? Really Wilson? What year is this? 1971? _The Complete Works of the Marquis de Sade_. Now we're talking. Wait, _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_? Of _course_ Wilson reads Harry Potter."

She opened the book and started flipping the pages.

"Cuddy." She spun around, startled. House had gotten up from the bed and was standing behind her.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She closed her eyes. She was practically vibrating from the nearness of him.

"I don't know," she said, honestly.

He took his cue, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her toward him.

"Cuddy . . ." he said again.

She didn't hesitate, kissed him. In an instant, he had her up against the bookshelf, and was reaching under her blouse, his hands—once the soft hands of a doctor and piano player, now rougher, the hands of a worker—roaming the silky skin of her back and waist.

"I never thought I'd . . we'd. . ." he said breathlessly.

"Shut up House. Don't ruin it," she said, biting his bottom lip, enough to make it bleed.

They staggered away from the shelf and fell back on the bed. Now House had removed her shirt and she was climbing on top of him, straddling him, unbuttoning his shirt, kissing his neck, devouring him.

Lost in their reverie, they both forgot that there was a party going on, not 10 feet away from them.

They heard a clearing of a throat.

They quickly and clumsily disentangled, looked up. Wilson was standing in the doorway bedroom, his arms folded, looking amused.

"I must say, this is the last thing I expected to see when I came in here looking for my glasses."

Cuddy was mortified. The presence of Wilson jolted her back to reality. She grabbed her blouse. Put it on hastily.

"I was just. . .going," she said.

And she left House and Wilson, staring at each other dumbly, in her wake.

######

She confessed the whole thing to her therapist a few days later.

"How did it make you feel?" came the predictable response.

"In the moment? Excited, exhilarated. Afterwards? Like there is something seriously wrong with me."

"Why do you think you want to be intimate with a man who once tried to kill you?"

Cuddy sighed. She had expected the question. "The violence was … an aberration," she explained. "It's not who he is. When he ODs on vicodin, he . . .hallucinates, acts out. He's clean now. Has been for almost 4 years."

"It sounds like you're making excuses for him."

"I've had a lot of practice," Cuddy said, with a grim chuckle.

"But when you first began your treatment, Lisa, you were terrified of House. You hated him."

"I was angry," Cuddy admitted. "I demonized him. Then, after he saved Rachel, he became a saint, you know? But he's neither. He's just a man. A very deeply flawed man who I have been in love with 25 years."

"There's a fine line between love and obsession," her therapist said.

"Don't I know it," Cuddy replied.

She called him a few days later.

"I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you," she said. "I've been processing."

"I understand," House said. 'Wilson walking in on us. It's like being caught having sex by your _dad_."

"I wasn't talking about Wilson."

"I know."

"House. .. I talked to Doug Westing. He really wants you to come work for him."

"I can't. I already accepted a job at Johns Hopkins," House said. "I'm leaving in two days."

Cuddy felt strangely panicked.

"I don't want you to go."

"Cuddy, I have to."

"Why? Aren't I the reason you're leaving?"

"Well . . . yes."

"Then I'm telling you, you don't need to go."

"Yes, I do. You need to get on with your life, Cuddy. Without me."

"You were in prison for 3 years House, and I didn't get on with my life. How is your moving to Baltimore going to be any different?"

"Because you were traumatized then. By _me_. But you're better now. Stronger."

"And I realize that I still want you in my life."

"I'll always be in your life, Cuddy. Just not that way. Trust me, it's better like this."

"Why? Because I deserve better?"

"Yes," he said sincerely.

"But House. . .I don't want anyone better. I just want you." She started to cry.

"Cuddy, don't make this harder than it already is."

"Damn you, House. I really hate you sometimes, ya know?"

"I know you do, Cuddy. I know."

EPILOGUE

_The landlord in Baltimore handed him the keys to his new apartment, helped with his luggage up the flight of stairs. House opened the door, blinked at the bright lights, the clean open space. Then he did a double take. A piano was pushed up against the far wall. He looked closer. _His_ piano. _

"_The piano?" he asked, confused._

"_A gift from your lady friend," the landlord said with a chuckle. "She insisted it be here when you arrived. She's . . .hard to say no to."_

_House laughed, with fondness. "I know."_

"_She left a note," the landlord said. "I'll leave you to it, unless there's anything else."_

"_No, I'm good. Thanks."_

The landlord left. House limped over to the piano. The note, on a nice piece of personalized stationery, was on the music ledge.

House-  
>A little House-warming gift, pun intended. Here's to always making beautiful music—whether we're together or apart.<br>C

_House held the note for a second, smelled it. Laughed at the adolescent silliness of the gesture. Then he rubbed his hand across the glossy wood, sat on the bench. _

"_Hello, old friend," he said out loud._

_He played a few notes, then a few more. Then a lilting melody. He hadn't played the piano in four years. _

_After a while, he got up from the bench, opened his duffel bag, pulled out a piece of paper—smoothed it. It was the essay and drawing from Rachel._

_He went to his refrigerator and hung the essay up with a magnet. _

Now_ it felt like home._


	2. Chapter 2

Annie noticed her right away.

A glamorous woman, who strode assuredly to the bar, and ordered a martini. She seemed like the kind of woman who could sit alone at a bar with complete confidence, whereas Annie always felt totally self-conscious—always needed a book or a magazine to occupy herself.

Annie took note of the way the woman crossed her legs, the way she glanced discreetly at her smart phone, the way she smiled at the bartender—inviting, but not _too_ inviting.

"You can just put it on my room tab," she said. "Lisa Cuddy. Room 617."

Annie couldn't believe her ears. She hastily tucked the fashion magazine she was reading into her oversized purse, and scooted three barstools over.

"Excuse me," she said. The woman looked up, with just the tiniest trace of annoyance on her face. "Did you just say your name was Lisa Cuddy? _Dr._ Lisa Cuddy?"

"Yes," Cuddy said cautiously.

"My name is Annie Cartright. I'm a friend of Dr. Gregory House?"

"House," Cuddy said. She gave a musing half smile. "How is Dr. House?"

"He's . . .fine. He's good. Actually, we're more than friends. He's my boyfriend. . ."

Annie kept staring at Lisa Cuddy—the perfect cut of her suit, her toned legs, her "you can't afford me so don't even ask" pumps. She felt like she was seeing an apparition.

"I'm sorry if I'm staring," she said, catching herself. "It's just that I can't believe you're sitting here next to me. You're, like, a legend in my mind. You're like Chupacabra or something to me." Annie laughed, somewhat sheepishly, at her own joke. She had a very annoying tendency to ramble when she got nervous.

But Lisa Cuddy didn't extend her the courtesy of laughing with her.

"So you're House's girlfriend, huh?" she said, frowning slightly. "How old are you?"

"27," Annie said.

"Gosh," she gave a sarcastic smile. "That's young alright."

"Greg taught a class that I took at Medical School? I, of course, had a massive crush on him from day one. All the girls did. Anyway, once the class was over we started seeing each other and now we, uh, live together."

"Live together?" Cuddy said. "Wow."

Annie couldn't help feeling that she was being sized up, not necessarily favorably. She knew that she was pretty. As pretty as Lisa Cuddy, maybe even prettier. She had long auburn hair and creamy white skin and large green eyes. She was on the voluptuous side, too. Greg always said he liked her body because she had breasts and ass and wasn't one of those clothing hangers he saw wandering around campus.

But around Lisa Cuddy, she felt clumsy, ungainly, immature—like a gawky teenager.

"Are you here for the conference?" Annie said.

"Yes, I am," Cuddy replied. "I'm the keynote speaker."

Of course.

"Does Greg know you're in Baltimore?"

"No, he doesn't," Cuddy said. "To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was going to tell him."

"I know he'd love to see you," Annie said, immediately regretting it. What kind of woman tries to negotiate a reunion between her boyfriend and his gorgeous ex-lover? A moron, that's what kind.

Cuddy ordered a second drink, which Annie motioned to the bartender to put on her tab. She was determined to regain some kind of footage. Cuddy gave a quick nod of thanks.

"So what was Greg like back when he was . . . practicing medicine?" Annie asked. This wasn't exactly what she wanted to know, but she figured it was better to ease into the more personal stuff later.

Cuddy regarded her warily. "Do you know what happened with his medical license?".

"Yeah, sure. I mean, we _talk_. I know that he had some sort of drunk driving arrest. And that people he loved could've gotten hurt."

Cuddy nodded slowly. "Something like that," she said.

"He was a famous diagnostician, right?"

"Right," Cuddy said. "If you were sick, especially if you had an undiagnosed illness, there was no better physician in the world. On the other hand, if you wanted someone with good bed side manner, there was quite possibly no _worse_ physicianin the world." She laughed.

"Wow," Annie said, chewing on a cocktail straw.

"And what was he like as a boyfriend?" she asked finally.

Cuddy side-eyed her. "But wouldn't you know that yourself?" she asked.

"Well, yeah. . .of course . . ." Annie looked at the table. "I just wanted to get your perspective."

Cuddy was now well into her second martini and was beginning to loosen up.

"Being with House was all the highest of highs and the lowest of lows," she said, somewhat dreamily. "And I mean that, quite literally. The best and worst days of my life were spent with him."

"We should form a support group," Annie said, with a commiserative chuckle. "Women Who Have Dated Gregory House Anonymous."

"The few, the brave," Cuddy said, laughing with her.

They clinked glasses.

"Well, at least our boy excels in one area," Cuddy said, spearing an olive with her tongue, and giving a slightly dirty smirk.

"You're talking about sex right?" Annie said.

"Right," Cuddy said.

"So he was probably just this amazing lover with you?" Annie muttered. "Totally attentive to all your needs?"

"Of course." Cuddy looked at Annie quizzically. "I mean, he's great in bed, right? That was the one area I never had any complaints about."

Annie stared down at her vodka gimlet, felt a blush rise to her cheeks.

"Yeah, I guess. . .He's not exactly overly concerned with my experience you know?" she said.

Cuddy rested chin in her hand. Looked at Annie, clearly feeling a little sorry for her.

"I guess every couple experiences sex differently, right?" she said, trying to be nice.

"Yeah," Annie said glumly.

In truth, Lisa Cuddy was kind of Annie's worst nightmare. Beautiful, self-possessed. And to make matters worse, it was incredibly obvious that Gregory House went down on her.

######

When Annie got home, House was sitting in his favorite chair, listening to music through headphones. Normally, this was her cue to leave him alone, but she felt a possessive need to make contact with him—to claim him as her own.

She kissed the top of his head.

He looked up. Smiled slightly. Removed the headphones.

"How was the conference?" he asked.

"Good," she said. "I missed you."

She gave him an upside down kiss on the lips, her hair falling in his face. It was a little more ardent than a normal home-from-work kiss. More like a prelude to sex.

"Wow," he said. "You _really_ missed me, huh?'

"I guess so," she said. She came around to the front of the chair, sat in his lap, wrapped her arms around him, kissed him again.

"Did you have dinner yet?"

"I had some of that leftover chicken in the fridge a couple of hours ago," he said, kissing her back. More than willing.

"Oh. . .sorry I didn't get home sooner. I stopped at the bar for a drink. . . you'll never guess who I ran into?"

"Dr. Oz?" House joked, kissing her neck, beginning to undo the first few buttons of her blouse.

"Your old friend Lisa Cuddy."

He stopped kissing her, dropped his hands from her blouse. She saw the muscles in his neck contract.

"Where? At the bar?"

"Yeah, turns out she's tomorrow's keynote speaker."

"So you guys . ..talked?" he asked.

"Yeah, I bought her a couple of drinks, actually. She's very. . .nice."

"You're hurting my leg," he said, kind of shaking her off. "Can you get up?"

She did, obediently. "Sorry," she said.

"What did you talk about?"

"You mostly," Annie admitted.

"Great," he said sarcastically.

"I'll put it to you this way: She almost seems to worship you as much as you worship her."

"I don't worship her," he said defensively.

"Yeah, right," she mumbled, looking at the floor.

"Let's please not have this fight again," he said.

"No, let's not. Besides, there's no point," Annie said.

She felt like an archer, about to take aim.

"What you mean?"

"Because I saw her finger. She has a rock the size of a small planet on it. She's engaged, Greg."

He looked completely and utterly undone. And Annie felt a strange mixture of triumph and disappointment.

"Oh," he said softly.

"I'm going to take a bath," Annie said, leaving him sitting in shock.

Bullseye.

######

The title of her speech was "Good Things, Small Packages: Maintaining Excellent Quality of Care and High Staff Morale at a Small-Sized Hospital."

House settled into a back row, a baseball cap slung low over his eyes, and watched her work.

As always, he loved to see Lisa Cuddy in professional mode. She had the entire auditorium wrapped around her pretty little finger. She made a joke, they laughed. She spoke softly, they collectively leaned forward in their chairs. She gave words of encouragement, they typed feverishly into their iPads.

As the Q&A portion of the program was winding down, House raised his hand.

She saw him, but didn't look surprised. Either she had assumed he was coming, because of her encounter with Annie, or his hat disguise wasn't quite as effective as he'd hoped.

"Dr. House?" she said, with a look of exasperated affection he knew all too well.

"Dr. Cuddy," he started. "What do you do when you have an employee who is always _flirting_ . . .with ethical violations?"

"I have a little bit of familiarity with that kind of doctor," she said, a smile playing at her lips. "I guess I would say, if you don't trust your doctors—clinically or ethically—then they shouldn't be on your staff."

"Good answer," House said. And winked at her.

She wrapped up the Q&A and there was appreciative applause. As a bunch of sycophants swarmed around her, House made his way to the bar.

There had been no tacit arrangement, not even an exchange of conspiratorial looks, but he knew in his heart she would come. At least, he hoped.

He sipped at his scotch and waited.

It took a while—almost 45 minutes, an uncomfortably long amount of time—but she finally strode into the bar.

"Sorry," she said, sliding onto the barstool next to him. "These people wouldn't shut up."

"They were inspired," he said, beaming at her. "They loved you."

She beamed back—and for a second, they were like two grinning idiots.

"You look good, Cuddy" he said.

"So do you, House." She took off his hat and ran her fingers through his hair—a gesture of such warm familiarity, it silenced them both.

"So. . you met Annie?" he asked finally, looking extravagantly guilty.

"She's adorable, House. . . like a newborn foal."

He shrugged. "She's a good kid," he said.

"Yeah, she is," Cuddy agreed.

"How's Rachel?" he said, before they could discuss Annie any further.

"Speaking of children?" Cuddy asked.

"Touché," House said with a grin.

"She's great. Can you believe she just started the second grade?"

"Did she get the birthday present I sent her?"

"Are you kidding? I had to talk her out of wearing that Blackbeard costume to school every day."

"The kid has excellent taste," House said.

Cuddy nodded. "Yes, she does."

For a few minutes, they were quiet, sipping their drinks, basking in the nearness of each other. Then they talked a bit about Wilson—he had broken up with Brenda the architect and was now dating Sonia, who owned a New Age book store.

"He's such a schmuck," House said fondly.

"But he's our schmuck," Cuddy replied.

"Indeed, he is," House said.

They gossiped a bit about various doctors and nurses around the hospital. Made fun of the pharmaceutical reps who roamed the hotel bar, looking for a doctor to prey on.

"So are we going to keep ignoring the 3 carat elephant in the room?" House finally asked.

"Oh yeah," she said sheepishly, holding out her hand. "Ta da! I'm engaged."

"Do tell."

"His name is Brett Alston and he's—brace yourself— a judge," she said.

"Wow," House said. "From a criminal to a judge. I like the way you work."

Cuddy shot him a look.

"So. . .do you love him?" House said.

"Yeah, I do," she said thoughtfully. "I mean, it's not like it was between you and me—needless to say, right? But he's a good man, House. Good to Rachel. He has two grown daughters, who I've become pretty close to. It's all good. I'm in a good place."

"I'm happy for you," he said. He surprised himself by almost meaning it.

"And do you love Bambi?" she asked.

House gave a weary smile.

"No Cuddy," he said. "Of course I don't."

"But she's fun?"

"Yeah, she's fun," he said.

"And your job?"

"The lab work I love. All puzzles, no patients. I could do without the teaching, but it comes with the territory."

"I'm sure you're a great teacher," she said. "Annie seems to think so."

"Anne is in awe of my farts," House said.

Cuddy laughed, and playfully touched his hand. Their eyes locked for a second.

Almost reflexively, House touched her bare arm and began gently stroking it with his thumb. Cuddy looked at him, bit her lower lip.

He moved in closer, as if about to kiss her. Instead, he just stared into her eyes. She stared back.

"I should get going," she said abruptly, swallowing hard.

She turned to the bartender. "Put it on my room tab. Room 617."

The bartender didn't bother to tell Cuddy that he already had her room number in the system. He had worked in this hotel bar long enough to know that the number wasn't for his benefit.

######

House waited a discreet amount of time and took the elevator to the 6th floor. He hoped to God that he hadn't misread the signs. Cuddy was engaged to be married, after all. To a man she claimed to love. There had been no proposition. Just a touch, and a meaningful look. Maybe it wasn't an invitation. Maybe it was an _escape_.

He knocked on the door.

"Room Service!" he said, putting on a fake, high-pitched voice. "I've come to . . .service you!"

The minute she opened the door, his doubts, if he ever really had any, were assuaged.

She had changed into a silk robe and was holding two glasses of champagne in her right hand.

"Thank God," she said. "I wasn't sure if I was being too subtle."

She handed him a glass, which he promptly put down on a table. Then he took hers and put it down, too.

He reached out, undid the knot on her robe. It slid slowly to the floor and pooled diaphanously at her feet. She was wearing only a black bra and lace panties now.

He stepped back and drank her in.

If Cuddy had been worried, even a little bit, that she wouldn't compare favorably to his 27 year old girlfriend, the look on his face—not to mention the enormous bulge in his pants—put her fears to rest. He was so turned on, he could barely see straight.

"You are so fucking gorgeous," he said.

Not able to wait any longer, he grabbed at her ass, put his hands down the backside of her panties, and pulled her in for a long kiss.

"I think about you all the time," he whispered hoarsely.

"Me too," she confessed, pulling off his shirt and eagerly unbuttoning his jeans.

They both wanted to take thing slowly, savor the moment, but found themselves moving with some urgency. They fell back onto the bed. His hands and mouth roamed her body—his mouth lingering on her breasts, sucking her nipples until they were hard as erasers. Then he removed her panties, parted her legs with his knee, and went down on her.

It had been five years since they'd last had sex—the aborted grope session in Wilson's bedroom notwithstanding—but he still remembered exactly how she liked it. Dr. Lisa Cuddy moaned her approval of every flick, probe, and caress of his tongue—and he was so aroused by her taste and her spasmodic writhes, he feared he might actually come before she did.

Finally, her breath caught in series of high-pitched gasps and a slow wave of bliss rippled through her body.

It would be the first of many orgasms that the keynote speaker of the Mid-Atlantic Medical Conference had that night.

#######

He got home late and took a shower, so Annie wouldn't smell her on him.

He climbed slowly into bed, hoping not to wake her.

But there was point. She was wide awake, waiting for him.

"You didn't need to take a shower," Annie said. "I know where you were."

He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"So did you fuck her?"

He didn't want to have this conversation. Didn't want a sad girl in the bed next to him. Wanted to savor his night with Cuddy. Go over every contour of her body in his mind.

But he knew that Annie deserved the truth.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Was it magical? Did fireworks go off? Did moon beams light up the night sky?"

"Don't Annie," he said.

"Fuck you, Greg," she said.

"I never lied to you," he said.

"And that's supposed to make it better?"

"No," he said. "It's just a fact." His voice softened. "Look, she's going back to Princeton. She's marrying some judge. This was just a one night thing."

"But you still love her," Annie said. A tear trickled down her cheek.

"Yeah." He took his thumb and wiped the tear away.

"And you'll always love her?"

"I'm sorry."

"This sucks, you know that?"

"Yeah," House said. "I do."

"I should leave you," Annie said. "I should just pack my shit and get out."

"That's not what I want," House said. "But I would understand if you did."

"Fuck you," she said again, not moving, pouting like a small child.

"C'mere," House said. He took her in his arms, held her tight, consoled her. She had gone from crying to full on sobbing at this point.

"Shhhh, shhhh," he kept saying over and over again.

She eventually fell asleep.

In the morning, when he opened his eyes, she was already awake, watching him sleep.

"Greg?" she said.

_Here we go_.

"What do you want for breakfast?"


	3. Chapter 3

The morning of Wilson's wedding to Sonia, Cuddy was in the hotel bathroom, putting on makeup and Brett was in the room laying out his outfit: Khaki pants, white shirt, blue blazer. The man was nothing if not predictable.

"Brett," Cuddy said, attempting to keep her voice casual. "I just wanted go over some more things about House."

Part of her didn't want to talk about House at all, but experience told her that meeting House for the first time required a little prep work.

"I know, I know. He's Wilson's best man and I'm not allowed to hit him," said Brett, with a grin, buttoning his shirt.

Brett wasn't the kind of guy to feel threatened by his wife's ex boyfriend, or any man for that matter. He was a master of the universe type—a former high school lacrosse star who married (and later divorced) the homecoming queen, graduated at the top of Duke law school, had two beautiful daughters, and went on to become a powerful judge. He was 50, but in great shape—still jogged and played racquetball and golf. And, of course, he had recently landed the lovely Lisa Cuddy.

"It's just that he can, you know, come on a little strong sometimes," Cuddy said.

"Strong? How so?" He fastened his belt, ran his hair through his thick, graying hair, regarded himself in the mirror.

"Let me put it this way: He doesn't have a track record of being particularly _polite_ to the significant others of his exes."

Her mind flashed to House's treatment of Lucas. And then of course, there was poor, unsuspecting lube guy. Not to mention the stories that Stacy had told her about House and Mark. . .

Brett actually knew a fair amount about House and Cuddy. He knew that they had worked together and dated for almost a year; he knew about the crash, and even about House's jail time (Cuddy had blamed the whole thing, accurately to some extent, on House's drug addiction).

He didn't, of course, know that his new bride had slept with House a mere two months before their wedding. Cuddy liked to be honest with him—but she wasn't on sodium pentathol.

"I'm sure I can handle him," Brett said confidently.

Cuddy examined her eyeliner in a magnified mirror.

"No one can handle him." _Except me_, she thought. "Trust me on this."

"So remind me again why I can't deck the guy?"

"Because I asked you not to."

"Oh yeah. Right."

"Look, all I'm asking is that you don't take the bait. No matter how rude or condescending House is, just brush it off. Take the high road. Can you do that for me?"

Brett came into the bathroom, stood next to her.

"Whatever you say, honey," he said, kissing Cuddy on the cheek.

"Thank you," she said.

And she took a deep, anxious breath that she hoped her husband didn't notice.

The first time Cuddy saw him was when he limped down the aisle and stood next to Wilson at the altar.

It was a casual resort wedding—in Sanibel Island, FL. The groomsmen all wore tan linen pants and blazers and white shirts. House-plus-linen meant he was even more rumpled than usual. Wilson wore the same outfit but his suit had a vest—and he managed to look smart and crisp.

House slumped a bit, like an antsy teenager. He stood next to Wilson, the ring jammed conspicuously in his pocket.

He sought out Cuddy in the crowd, gave a small smile.

She smiled back, and subtly gestured for for him to stop slouching.

He stood straight—and a for a second, she got a perverse, inexplicable thrill: _He still obeys me. He still turns to me for cues. _

Brett saw her looking at House and grabbed onto her hand possessively.

"That him?" he asked.

"Yes," Cuddy said.

The ceremony ended and people wandered to their tables.

She'd already taken note of the seating chart. Wilson, of course, was too smart to put House and Cuddy at the same table. House was sitting with Chase and Foreman and a few of the other doctors from PPTH. (No Annie. She'd have to look into that.) Cuddy and Brett got stuck at an odds-and-ends type table that included Wilson's aunt, his next door neighbors, and the woman who groomed his cat.

She watched House out of the corner of her eye. He was clearly giving Chase grief about something. In the past year or so, House seemed to have gotten some of his old swagger back. He wasn't quite the extravagantly self-confident jerk she had once known, but he wasn't the self-loathing, guilt-riddled shell of a man just out of prison, either. He was somewhere in between—like old House with a little extra sadness around the edges.

As she was thinking this, House clinked at his champagne glass, and stood to make his best man's toast.

"There are a few things in this life you can depend on," House started. "Death, taxes, and another James Wilson wedding."

Wilson gave a comedic shrug. He was expecting this.

"I'd say it's an honor and a thrill to be the best man, but Wilson actually only has four friends. It was simply my turn in line."

The guests laughed comfortably. Unlike Cuddy, most of them didn't know how capable House was of crossing the line.

House now raised his glass in Sonia's direction.

"Sonia you look lovely today. Of course, he only marries the pretty ones. He _sleeps_ with all of them—but he only marries the pretty ones."

For the first time, the laughs got a little anxious.

House scratched at the stubble on his chin. Glanced at Cuddy.

"You know, I only met Sonia once, when she and Wilson came to visit me in Baltimore," he continued. "And I noticed something pretty remarkable during that visit. Wilson was actually relaxed."

There were a few knowing chuckles in the crowd.

"Yes, those of you who know Wilson know how truly astounding this is. Wilson _sleeps_ nervously. But he was smiling, he was laughing. He even kicked off his shoes at one point—okay, he had a second pair of shoes underneath, but still. This was a big step."

A huge laugh. House completely had the crowd in the palm of his hand. _The bastard is a good public speaker when he puts his mind to it_, Cuddy thought, recalling the countless times he had dodged giving talks when he worked for her.

"My point is, the reason James Wilson is taking this leap—again—is because he found someone who makes him so happy he simply couldn't let her get away. Also, he saw the way I was looking at her and figured if he didn't marry her, I probably would. . ." He raised his glass high. "To the happy couple!"

There were raised glasses, cheers, and applause. Wilson walked over to House, gave him a playful punch in the arm and then a hug. It was so cute to see them like that, Cuddy thought.

House's eyes sought out Cuddy again. She nodded at him approvingly, smiled. And he gave a proud little bow.

At some point, she knew, she was going to have to introduce them. She tried to strategize. When would be the best time to do it? Later, when she'd had a few more drinks? Or should she do it now, quickly, like ripping off a Band-aid?

House made the choice for her. As the dessert course came around, he limped over to her table.

"Hi," he said, kissing Cuddy on the cheek, casual as you please. The last time Gregory House had been this close to her, he had his face between her legs. She felt her own face get hot.

He held out his hand for Brett. "Greg House," he said.

"Brett Alston," Brett said, shaking back. "Nice toast."

"Thank you. As Dr. Cuddy knows, I just love giving a speech."

"Dr. Cuddy-Alston," Brett corrected.

_Uh oh. Here we go_.

But instead of offering up some sarcastic quip, House merely said, "Oh yes. Congratulations on the wedding. I'm happy for you two."

"Thank you, Greg," Brett said. He looked at Cuddy: _This is the guy you were warning me about?_

"You got to hand it to Wilson," House said. "Four weddings. The eternal optimist."

Brett laughed. "I think those crazy kids just might make it work."

There was a bit of strained small talk—about the band (so-so, they all agreed), about Brett's golf game that morning (he shot a respectable 104), about where Rachel was (Disney Land with Julia and her family)—Cuddy tried to keep up but she was pretty much in shock.

"I gotta go," House said finally. "The way Foreman's eyeing my mousse is making me nervous."

He said goodbye to them both and shuffled away.

"Wow. So rude," Brett said, teasing her. "Thanks for the warning."

She wasn't amused.

"Trust me, that was totally out of character," she said.

"Don't sulk," he said. "Here, taste my mousse." He brought his spoon to her lips. "One bite's not going to kill you."

An hour later, she got a text:

_Out back. 15 mins_.

She felt that familiar jolt–excitement, anxiety, guilt.

"I'm going to the ladies room," she said to her husband. "Be right back."

He was leaning against a tree near a dumpster behind the kitchen.

When he saw her, he didn't hesitate. Pulled her toward him, kissed her greedily. She closed her eyes, melted into his arms—yielding. She was always yielding to Dr. Gregory House.

"Stop!" she said, pushing him away—more angry at herself than at House. "I can't. . .I'm married now"

"I know," he said. "I saw the wedding announcement in the _NY Times_."

He gave her an amused look. "That's certainly a mighty fine husband you've got there, Dr. Cuddy."

She deflected his sarcasm.

"Don't knock Brett. He's a great guy. I wouldn't go so far as to say _you'd_ like him, but most people do."

"What's not to like?" House said seriously. "He's a winner. He practically oozes success. People like to be around somebody like that."

He was clearly contrasting Brett with himself.

"Plus, he looks like he came out of the womb wearing a perfectly tailored onesie," House added.

"And you," Cuddy teased, affectionately smoothing his shirt with her hands. "Are a mess."

House looked down, almost accusingly, at her hands. She pulled them away.

"I guess I need a woman in my life," he mumbled.

"So Annie?" she asked.

"Who?"

"The girl you were living with, as recently as 6 months ago?"

"Oh, _her_," he grinned. "Didn't work out. Turns out, she had very big shoes to fill."

They both looked at the ground.

A minute later, two resort staffers—young guys wearing white smocks and do-rags—came out of the kitchen for a smoke. House put his fingers to his lips, pulled Cuddy toward him a bit, shielding her with his body. They watched them quietly from behind the tree until the men left.

"So how's married life?" House finally asked, letting her go.

"It's good," she said. She felt her response wasn't enthusiastic enough. "Really good," she amended.

"Good to hear," he said.

"To be honest, I didn't expect you to be so . . .cordial to Brett," Cuddy admitted.

"I'm full of surprises."

"Yes you are."

As they talked, House had untucked Cuddy's shirt and was now beginning to roll his finger tantalizing along the waistline of her skirt.

"Stop it, House," she said, unconvincingly.

He withdrew his hand. Then took hers. Intertwined their fingers.

"I'm sorry," he said.

He looked at her—his large eyes searching for more clues. She looked back, trying to convey resolve. Not pulling it off. Her face was slack with desire.

He brought her hand to his lips, then kissed the back of her wrist. He kissed her arm and leaned in and very gently kissed her neck.

"I'm sorry," he said again

He kissed her cheek.

"I'm sorry."

He tugged at her bottom lip with his teeth, gently, just a graze—then kissed it.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Now he kissed her full on the mouth again—and she kissed him back, unable to control herself.

"Fuck!" she said, pushing him off. "Brett is right inside."

"I know," he said again. Then, imploringly: "Come see me tonight. Meet me on the beach."

"House, I can't."

"Why not? I'm staying in room 2150. It has a private entrance onto the beach." He whispered in her ear: "Cuddy, I need you."

"My husband needs me," she said.

"He already has you."

She sighed.

"Call me at 10:15," she said. "Then hang up. I'll see if I can get away."

They got back to the hotel room around 10 pm, after dinner at a local seafood house.

Brett flopped on the bed.

"Long day," he said, stretching luxuriously.

"I know," she said, lying next to him. "But the wedding was nice, huh?"

"Not as nice as ours," he said.

"Sonia looked absolutely lovely," Cuddy said.

"Not as lovely as you looked," Brett replied.

He smiled, kissed her on the mouth. Did he want sex?

No, he had flipped on the TV and found Sportscenter. He was just being sweet. Brett's sexual appetite was more than healthy for a man his age, but he didn't have quite the enthusiasm or stamina that House had.

_Yet another area where House and I are completely compatible_, she thought.

Cuddy vaguely watched the channel—something to do with the Top 10 plays of the day; she really couldn't care less about sports—and anxiously glanced at the clock.

10:17.

_Maybe he forgot to call_. . .that thought filled her with a strange combination of relief and dread.

A minute later, though, her phone did ring. She answered it.

"Beach behind room 2150," he whispered. And hung up.

"Oh really?" she said into the dead phone. "Isn't there a medic on staff at the resort? Oh, I see. And did you call 911? Okay , I understand. . .I'll be right there."

Brett looked at her, concerned.

"Everything okay?"

"It's Sonia's sister," Cuddy lied. "She was hyperventilating and having chest pain. They think it was a panic attack, but they want me to come examine her."

Sonia's sister, in fact, was not only healthy as a horse but as laid back as her big sis—and about as likely to have a panic attack as the Dalai Llama. _And one lie begets another_, Cuddy thought.

"There are, like, 50 doctors at this wedding. You're the only one who can examine her?" Brett said.

"She knows me. She feels comfortable with me," Cuddy explained. She hadn't lied like this since she was a teenager sneaking out to be with her boyfriend. An apt analogy, she realized.

"Oh," Brett said. He yawned broadly. "You want me to come with you?"

"No, I'm good. They're just a few buildings over . .."

"And you're sure you're not sneaking out to be with that asshole ex boyfriend of yours?" Brett cracked.

"Why would you even say that?" she said, hoping she didn't sound overly alarmed.

"Whoa, I'm just kidding," he said. "Didn't mean to touch a nerve."

"You didn't," she said. "I just. . .worry that you might be jealous."

"Me? Jealous of an ex-con, ex-junkie with a limp? I don't think so."

"Brett!"

"Sorry," he said, genuinely feeling bad. "I didn't mean it like that. But no, I assure you I'm not jealous."

He kissed her quickly on the lips.

"Don't wait up," she said.

What kind of woman leaves her brand new husband alone in a hotel room to sneak off to have sex with her ex boyfriend?

An addict, that's who, she thought. You can be sober for 20 years, but one drink and you're back off the wagon. In her case, 5 minutes in House's presence in a parking lot behind a dumpster and she was craving her next fix.

_I love my husband, I love my husband_, she kept telling herself. But she continued to walk, as though compelled by planetary forces, toward his suite.

He was on the private beach, as promised, still wearing his outfit from the wedding, but barefoot, with the pants rolled up. He had a blanket slung over his shoulder.

She noticed it.

"Just so you know, I haven't decided if I'm sleeping with you yet," she said firmly.

"Neither have I," he said, with a smirk.

He held out his hand: "Care to limp along the beach, my lady?"

"You sure your leg's going to be okay?" she asked.

"As long as you're not expecting any beach volleyball action," he replied. "All other action, I am more than willing to supply."

She looked around nervously.

"What if someone sees us?"

"Like who?"

"Like Wilson and Sonia," she said.

"I'm pretty sure they're otherwise occupied."

"What about the other wedding guests? Half of them are staying at this resort."

"So what?" he said. "None of them know Brett. And they wouldn't rat us out anyway."

She hesitated.

"Have I mentioned how gorgeous you look by the moonlight, Dr. Cuddy?" he said.

"Dr. Cuddy-Alston," she corrected.

"Never!" he said.

She laughed, despite herself.

"I wish I could quit you, Dr. House," she said, and took his extended hand.

They found a nice spot about half a mile away—far enough from the main hotel to feel safe. House lay out the blanket, pulled a flask out of his inside jacket pocket, took a swig. Offered it to her.

"Wow. You sure know how to romance a lady," she joked.

"I had to plan on the fly," he said defensively. "The next time we have a late-night picnic, I promise a Chateauneuf de Pape."

She took a gulp. It was some kind of strong whiskey. The liquid warmed her, helped her relax.

He lay on his back, she lay on her stomach, her head propped up on her elbows.

"This is nice," she said.

"Yeah," he agreed. "It is."

They were quiet for a second.

"So do I get to kiss you yet?" he asked impatiently.

"Okay, one kiss."

He leaned in, touched her chin, kissed her gently, just the smallest amount of tongue.

_Why did he have to be such a good kisser?_

She closed her eyes.

"God, what is wrong with me?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said, rubbing her back.

He had a cocky look on his face that all but said, "Can we stop pretending that we're not going to have sex now?"

"I'm not just married House. I'm a _newlywed_."

"Mazel tov."

"I'm not supposed to even _think_ about cheating."

"Then don't think about it," he said.

If only it were that easy.

"But it's wrong," she said weakly.

"Look Cuddy, if I'm lucky I see you, what, 2 or 3 times a year?" he said. "Brett gets all the rest of the days. I really don't see how this is such a betrayal."

Ah, Gregory House and his unassailable logic.

She reached into his inside pocket, pulled out the flask, took another gulp. She wanted to be numbed enough that she didn't feel the guilt.

"C'mere," she said, unable to even keep up the pretense of resistance, grabbing him by the collar. He smiled, leaned over, kissed her again. She was more into it this time—the kiss had a little heat.

"One more kiss like that, Cuddy, and there's no turning back," he said.

"I know," she said, and involuntarily shuddered.

"You cold?" he asked. He took off his jacket, put it over her shoulders.

"Why cover me when we both know that you're about to uncover me?" she said.

"Oh, we both know that, do we?" He looked inordinately pleased with himself.

She grinned, that sexy Lisa Cuddy grin of hers. "Yes."

They were both so into the moment, they didn't notice the shadowy figure approaching them on the beach.

"Looks like I had reason to be jealous," a male voice said.

Cuddy looked up, stunned.

"Brett!" she said.

"Shit," House muttered.

He was dressed like he was going for a late night jog on the beach—a gray T-shirt with the word Duke emblazoned on the front, red shorts. He had his arms folded.

"Sorry if I interrupted something intimate," he said.

"You _followed _me here?" accused Cuddy. The classic refuge of the guilty—deflecting blame.

"Not at first," Brett said. "But the more I thought about it, it just didn't sit right. The minute I mentioned House, you freaked out. So I decided to go for a jog, see what I saw. And here we all are."

"Nothing happened," House said.

"Shut up, House," Brett said. "This is between me and my wife."

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said. She got up off the blanket—went to grab Brett's arm. He pulled away.

"House is right. Nothing happened," she pleaded.

"Don't lie, Lisa," he said. "I saw you two kiss."

"One kiss," Cuddy said. "It was just one innocent kiss." It was hopeless and she knew it.

"Well, guess what?" Brett spat out. "Congratulations. You get what you want. You can spend the rest of your life with your damaged goods boyfriend here. I want a fucking divorce."

He stormed away angrily.

"Brett!" she yelled, running after him. Her voice had an edge of desperation: "Brett!"

House watched her run after her husband—holding her sandals in her hand. She didn't turn back to say goodbye, or even acknowledge him. She just ran after Brett until she disappeared into the black night.

He sighed, took a long swig from the flask she had dropped on the blanket, lay back.

"Shit," he said again.


	4. Chapter 4

House arrived home from Florida in an even fouler mood than usual.

Of course, he was ticked about the _coitus interruptus_ on the beach—waiting six agonizingly long months to have sex with Cuddy and then having it pulled out from under him was hardly his idea of a good time.

But mostly he was just worried about her.

Had she caught up to Brett? Had they argued? Was he still planning on going through with that ridiculous divorce—or had that just been an overreaction in the heat of the moment?

Whatever the case, House knew Cuddy was in a bad place and it was because of him.

And he felt like crap about it.

To add insult to injury, it had been over a week now and he still hadn't heard from her. Nothing. Not a phone call, not an email, not even a text.

He wanted to get in touch with her himself—but figured there was a strong likelihood that Brett was monitoring her telephone and computer use. He'd already screwed things up badly enough. He didn't want to make it worse.

Normally in these instances he would turn to Wilson for advice (and then artfully twist it to suit his own agenda). But his best friend was on some sort of New Age couples retreat in India (Sonia's idea—but at least there had been some vague promise of Tantric sex.)

He was alone.

So he steeled himself with a shot of scotch, scrolled through his contacts, and dialed an unfamiliar number.

"Hello?" a female voice said.

"Julia? It's House. Don't hang up."

"Jesus, House. You really have some nerve calling here. Haven't you done enough damage?"

"I just want to know if she's okay."

"No, she's not okay. Her marriage is falling apart—thanks to you. Do you ever think about anybody other than yourself?"

"Apparently not," he said dryly.

"You're a real ass, you know that, House?"

"Yeah. . .Can you at least get a message to her?"

"No House. I'm not going to get a message to her. Just leave us alone."

In the background, there were footsteps, then a woman's voice.

"Julia, who is it?"

_Cuddy_.

"It's. . ."— a long pause—"House."

"Let me talk to him. I'll take it in the guest room."

The sound of a phone being exchanged. More footsteps.

Then a near-whisper: "Hi."

"Hi," he whispered back. "You okay?"

"Been better. Sorry I haven't called. I promised Brett that I would never talk to you again." She gave an ironic little laugh. "Good one, huh?"

"So you guys are. . .talking?"

"Mostly he yells, I listen."

"I'm so sorry, Cuddy."

"Yeah, it hasn't exactly been a fun week."

"And you're staying with Julia?"

"For now. Rachel and I have no place to go. Brett kicked us out."

House's mind flashed to Rachel. The car crash into her living room, her illness, now this. The kid had been through a lot.

"Is she okay?"

"She's fine. She's 7. We had chocolate chip pancakes for dinner last night so all was right in the universe."

"I'm glad," he said.

They were both silent.

"So what's going to happen now?" he asked finally.

"I don't know." There was a catch in her voice. She was on the verge of tears. "I think I'm getting a divorce. Brett is furious with me. He doesn't handle adversity particularly well. I guess he doesn't have much experience with it."

"I could give him some pointers," House said.

"Yeah. You and me both."

_Because of me_, House thought. _Almost all the adversity in your life is because of me_.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

"No," she said. "But it's nice to hear a friendly voice."

He hesitated. "I still feel like this is all my fault."

"Why?" she said. "Because you _forced_ me to meet you on that beach? Last time I checked, what we did—well, what we were _about_ to do—takes two."

"Yeah, but. . . you resisted."

"Token resistance," Cuddy said plainly. "Look House, we both played our roles. And we both know I wasn't coerced."

"I still feel like shit."

"I know you do, House. But you shouldn't. . .Listen, I gotta go. It's Rachel's storytime and I'm trying to keep up our routine. I promise I'll call soon, okay?"

"Okay," he said. "Goodnight, Cuddy."

"Goodnight House."

She hung up.

He looked at the phone, feeling quite possibly worse than before. His rubbed his leg—it was killing him. He popped 4 Advil, knowing it would barely make a dent.

Julia was right. He was a selfish bastard.

When he moved to Baltimore, he'd had this idea that he was making the ultimate sacrifice for Cuddy. Saw himself as noble, a martyr even.

In his mind, if she was happily married and he was alone and miserable, he'd done the right thing. And if they hooked up once or twice a year? That was just his reward for staying away.

But, of course, it didn't work that way. Infidelity is never a victimless crime. And in this case, there were three victims.

He picked up the phone again, dialed his boss at the lab.

"Phil, I need to take a few days off. I have some unfinished business in Princeton I need to attend to."

The diner across the street from the Princeton Municipal Courthouse was one of those places that time forgot. The booths were maroon-colored vinyl, the waitresses called the customers "honey" and there were dishes on the menu like creamed chipped beef and liver and onions. Normally, House loved a place like this—hell, he had worked in one. But he wasn't here to soak up the ambiance.

He'd been told that almost all the judges and lawyers who worked in the court came here for lunch. So he slid into a booth and waited.

"What'll be, handsome?" a middle aged waitress said. The nametag on her uniform read "Mary."

"I'll just start with some of your finest java, Mary," House said, laying on the charm. "And, if you don't mind, a question: Does Judge Alston come here often for lunch?"

She gave him a cautious look. "Just about every day. Why?"

"We're old college buddies. I haven't seen him in a while and I was hoping we could catch up."

"Well, honey, if you're going to sit here waiting for the judge you better order more than coffee."

House glanced at the laminated menu. It had pictures of all the food on it. He wasn't hungry.

"Uh. . .a piece of cherry pie?" he said.

"That's all?" she said.

He nodded.

"You're lucky you're cute," she said, and grudgingly walked off to fill his order.

Brett came in with the late lunch rush, about 1:15 or so. He was with two other men and a woman—and the room seemed to part, Red-Sea-style, as they strode confidently to their table. House suspected that they were all judges.

Hiding behind a newspaper, he watched them order, then eat, then ask for the check, at which point he hobbled over to their table.

"Brett, can I have a word with you for a second?"

Brett was in the middle of telling an animated story about a defendant who had brought a Chihuahua in a purse to court and he stopped mid sentence. When he saw House, his mouth dropped open.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said.

"Just 5 minutes of your time," House said.

As it turned out, meeting Brett in such a public place was a pretty good strategy. Not only was he he less likely to make a scene in front of his colleagues, he was also less likely to do House any bodily harm.

"Unbelievable," Brett said, shaking his head. He stood up, visibly upset. "Go ahead without me," he told his friends.

"Everything okay?" the female of the group asked.

"Fine," he muttered, and followed House back to his booth.

"What the hell are you doing here, House?" he accused.

"I'm applying for a job as a court stenographer," House said. "Turns out I'm a really fast typist."

He immediately regretted his joke.

"Sorry," he said. "Old defense mechanism. . ."

"I'm due back in court in 15 minutes," Brett said impatiently. "Whatever you have to say, make it quick."

"I want to talk about Cud. . .Lisa."

"What about her?"

"She loves you."

"Thanks for the news flash."

"And you love her."

"You have no idea how I feel about her."

"Actually, I think I have a pretty good idea," House said. He fiddled with his coffee stirrer.

Brett stared at him, his arms folded defensively across his chest.

"Look, Lisa's a 46 year old woman," House continued. "Any 46 year old is going to come into a relationship with a little baggage. . . _I'm _her baggage."

"Yeah, well, she should've kicked her baggage to the curb when she took an oath of fidelity to me," Brett said pointedly.

"Agreed," House said. "And she will. This was a one-time mistake. It'll never happen again. You have my word—as a man."

"Your word means as much to me as that straw you're biting on."

House sighed, looked down at the table, rubbed his brow.

"Do you have any idea how much I envy you?" he said finally.

"Envy _me_? Oh this is going to be good."

"Don't you see? You win. I lose. _You're_ her life. I'm just a meaningless vacation."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it," Brett said.

"The point is, _you_ can make her happy," House said quietly. "Something I could never do."

Brett was actually a little thrown by House's candor.

"Maybe I don't want to make her happy anymore," he said.

"I think you do," House said. "Because she's worth fighting for. And we both know it."

He stood up, slapped a 20 dollar bill on the table, grabbed his cane.

"Make her and that little girl of hers happy, and I swear to you, you'll never hear from me again."

Later that night, Brett showed up at Julia's house. Rang the bell.

When Julia answered the door, she broke into a huge grin.

"Brett!" she said, practically embracing him. Julia loved herself some Judge Brett Alston.

"Is Lisa here?" he asked.

"Yeah, she's upstairs putting Rachel to bed. Have a seat. I'll go get her. Can I get you something? Wine? Beer? A sandwich?"

"I'm good," he said.

She raced up the stairs, taking two at a time. Cuddy was on the edge of Rachel's bed, reading her a book about fairies and unicorns.

Julia motioned for her urgently in the doorway.

"Brett's downstairs!" she whispered, sotto voce.

"My Brett?" Cuddy asked.

"Yes, he came to see you!"

"Wow," Cuddy said. "Can you finish reading this book to Rachel?"

"Of course!" Julia said.

Cuddy leaned down to Rachel. "Mommy's going to go talk to Brett, okay? I'll be back later to kiss you goodnight."

She handed Julia the book. Started toward the stairs.

"Wait? Aren't you going to put on some makeup? Fix yourself a little?"

"Oh, because _then_ he'll want me back?" Cuddy laughed. "Just wish me luck."

"Good luck," Julia said.

Cuddy went downstairs. Brett was sitting on the couch, flipping through a copy of Sports Illustrated.

When he saw her, he put down the magazine, stood up. Always one to stand on ceremony.

"Have a seat," he said.

She sat across from him, on a chair. Hugged her knees with her arms.

"So . . . what's up?" she said, laughing at her own inappropriately casual choice of words.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," Brett said. "And I want you and Rachel to move back home."

"You do?" Cuddy said.

"Yeah."

"Brett, I'm thrilled. Of course we'll move back. . .but why the sudden change of heart?"

"I just realized that you're the kind of woman worth fighting for."

"You don't need to fight for me, Brett. I'm yours."

"Funny, that's what he said," Brett said, almost under his breath.

"Who?"

"House."

"_House?_"

"Yeah, can you believe it? The little prick came to see me today. Actually tried to convince me to take you back."

"He did?"

"Yeah. Told me you deserved to be happy. And that I made you happy. I do, don't I?"

Cuddy stared at him, speechless.

"Yes, Brett. You do."

"So it's settled then. You'll move back in? On Saturday?"

"Uh huh," said Cuddy. Her mind was racing.

Brett walked up to her, gave her a long hug.

"I've missed you," he said.

She was quiet.

The next night, House sat in his apartment feeling extravagantly sorry for himself. He was alone, he'd probably never see Cuddy again, and to top it all off, his leg felt like it was being stabbed by hot pokers.

A week earlier, he'd pulled an old medical textbook off the shelf and a small baggy of vicodin had fallen from the pages. He had hidden so much vicodin over the years, it would take a lifetime to find his complete stash.

He should've thrown the bag away on the spot—it contained 6 pills. But somehow he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Now, he pulled the pills from the kitchen drawer where he had left them and dropped two into his palm. He stared at them.

For a second, he thought of the sweet relief, of the numbness, of the brief respite from his misery that the pills would bring him. It was almost overpowering.

He hadn't taken a vicodin in nearly 5 years.

_What's the difference?_ he thought. _Who's going to know? Who's going to care?_

But it was on vicodin that he'd hallucinated sex with Cuddy and ended up in Mayfield. It was on vicodin that he'd crashed into her home. In fact, almost every lousy thing he'd ever done in his life had been under the influence of these useless pills. And he wanted to be a better man. Not just for her this time, but for himself.

So he collected the pills—all six of them—and spilled them down the drain. He ran the garbage disposal. Heard them grind into nothingness.

He walked over to the piano bench, started to play—anything to distract him. It was about 11 pm. By now, he thought, Cuddy and Rachel would be back at Brett's house. He probably lived in some sort of enormous McMansion. Rachel probably had more toys than she knew what to do with. Maybe a Golden Retriever. He smiled at the thought.

Faintly, he heard something bang. He thought it was coming from the apartment next door. Then a bang again, this time a little louder.

He realized it was his front door.

He got up, opened it.

It was Cuddy and Rachel, both looking exhausted, like they'd been on an arduous journey. Cuddy was carrying a rather unwieldy suitcase and Rachel had a Hello Kitty knapsack slung over her shoulder.

"Cuddy! Rachel! What are you doing here?"

Without thinking, he pulled them both in for an embrace.

"Rachel, you're so tall!" he said, holding her at arm's length, taking her in. "And your hair is so long!"

"I'm going to donate it to Locks of Love!" Rachel said proudly.

"Wow. Uncle Wilson's idea?"

"Hers," Cuddy said, ruffling Rachel's hair.

House blinked at them both. He was in shock.

He grabbed their bags—thankfully, Cuddy's was on wheels—and led them into his apartment.

"You must be parched. Do you want something to drink?" he finally asked, walking into the kitchen.

"My unicorn!" Rachel said, noticing the drawing on the fridge.

Cuddy noticed it too. Felt a lump rise in her throat.

"Yeah," House smiled. "Your unicorn."

He opened the fridge.

"So what'll it be?"

"Apple juice!"

House peered in, scratched his head. He had a six pack of Dos Equuis, a bottle of tonic water, and a jar of pickles.

"She'll take a glass of tap water," Cuddy said, shaking her head.

"One water, coming right up."

He ran a glass under the tap.

"Hey, Rach," Cuddy said. "Can you go watch TV in the bedroom for a bit while House and I talk?"

Rachel nodded, scampered into the bedroom.

"I'll show you how to turn on the T. . ." But before House could finish the sentence, there was a click. Then a flurry of changed channels.

"She's 7," Cuddy explained. "She knows more about technology than both of us combined."

"Oh," House said.

He gazed at Cuddy. Even exhausted, with no makeup and messy hair, he still thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She would always be a goddess to him.

Was he hallucinating? But he distinctly remembered grinding that vicodin into a powder.

"Cuddy, really—what are you doing here? And for that matter, _how_ did you get here?"

"We took the train," Cuddy said. "And then a cab."

"I could've picked you up at the station."

"I needed the element of surprise," Cuddy said. "I needed to see the look on your face when I arrived on your doorstep unannounced with my 7-year-old."

"So did I pass the test?"

"With flying colors," she said, beaming at him.

In the next room, they heard the sound of The Cartoon Network—maybe Bugs Bunny.

"Is Rachel okay in there?" he said.

"Of course. The television was a pretense. I'm sure she's already sound asleep."

"You look pretty wiped out yourself," he said.

She slumped her shoulders in an exaggerated way. "I am wiped out."

"C'mere," he said. He hugged her, held her tight for a long time. Her cheek was up against his chest, the rough cotton of his Oxford shirt. She breathed him in. He smelled like home.

They both sat on the couch.

"So what happened with Brett?" House asked.

"He came to see me last night," she said. "Said he wanted me back."

"But that's a _good_ thing, right?"

"I thought it was, at first. But then I realized that I can't be a good wife to him when I'm still in love with another man."

"Me?"

"Yeah, dummy, you."

House smiled. She smiled back.

"So what is this? You're here for a visit? You're . . . moving in? What?"

"I haven't thought ahead that far," Cuddy admitted. "I just know that I'm done running away from you House. You're the love of my life. I think I'm the love of yours. And it's time we both stopped pretending otherwise."

"But I ran a car into your house," he said.

"And I broke your heart—repeatedly. We hurt each other. It's what we do. But we'll get through it—together. As I see it, we have no choice. We obviously can't be apart. We obviously can't be with other people. So we may as well be miserable together."

He laughed at her absurd logic, blinked away a tear, hugged her again. Now they were kissing—a soft lingering kiss, a promise of things to come.

They parted.

"If you stay, where would you work? Where would Rachel go to school?" House asked. He had a million questions.

"Let's sort things out in the morning, okay?" Cuddy said. "Now I just want to go to bed."

They went into the bedroom. As predicted Rachel was already fast asleep, her face buried in a pillow. Cuddy stripped down to a bra and panties, collapsed beside her daughter. House took off his shirt, lay down on Rachel's other side.

Cuddy reached a hand across Rachel's back. House took it.

"Good night, House," she murmured. "Thanks for having that exact look on your face when I. . ." She was out cold before she got out the words.

House wasn't sleepy at all. He didn't care. He held Cuddy's hand, stroked her arm, and looked at Rachel. She was having a good dream. She smiled in her sleep. He'd never been happier in his life.


End file.
